


Any route will get you there

by susurrant



Series: Roads [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Unrelated Winchesters, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susurrant/pseuds/susurrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes to hunting like he was born to it. Teaching him to shoot hits like a physical ache, John can’t help but see Sammy's chubby nine year old fingers wrapped around the grip instead of Dean's long fingers, callouses forming slowly as he practices day after day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any route will get you there

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a repost of a series I started writing years ago under a different username.

 

* * *

 

 

John knows this is probably a bad idea the second Dean steps up to the table and slaps a ten on the pile of cash. They'd come into the bar separately, and John is halfway through his second game before Dean walks in and heads straight for the pool table.

"I wanna play the winner," Dean says, all cocky attitude and eyes bright with excitement. It's for show, and when John looks at Dean closely he can tell.

 _Let me do this_ , is what Dean is saying. Kid's gotta learn sometime and it's damn well better than having him sell himself for cash. They've never actually talked about it, and hell if John’s going to bring it up - but knowing that Dean can pull a pool hustle instead of resorting to other things would put John’s mind at ease a little.

Besides, they’re running low on cash.

So he throws his round, figures he can always step back in later and drunkenly demand a rematch if it looks like Dean can't pull off the hustle. The other players take one look at Dean and start circling like they taste chum in the water.

Except Dean plays it like a master. He's the perfect overconfident teenager, crowing like a Grade-A bastard when he wins and looking shocked and resentful when he loses.

Everybody wants to take him down a peg, including John just a little bit, and Dean makes sure to miss his shot just often enough to make them think that they've got a chance. He catches Dean's eye after a particularly large haul and taps one finger on the table, one more game, lose a little so it doesn't look suspicious. Dean looks away, his focus back on the table but gives a tiny nod, _understood_.

Half an hour later they're standing outside, up a couple hundred bucks and Dean reluctantly hands over the wad of cash.

"Yeah, 'cause this doesn't feel at all like you're my sugar daddy."

John flicks through the bills and does a quick count. He's got just enough alcohol pumping through his veins to fuck up his judgment and ask, "If you're this good at pulling a hustle, why the fuck were you hooking?"

Dean just raises an eyebrow. "Guy like you can pull one off alone and get away clean. Way you look? I'm guessing people don't fuck with you when you win one time too many. I'm not that lucky."

"You got jumped." It's not a question.

"Yeah I got jumped," Dean says like it should be obvious. "Fucked as it is, hooking was safer sometimes. You're still taking their money, but not as much and at least it leaves 'em in a good mood, you know?"

"Not anymore it doesn't. No hooking, and you're getting checked out in the next town."

Dean stops and leans against the car, going for casual but obviously on high alert.

"Checked out how?"

"By a _doctor_."

 

* * *

 

Being on the road with Dean is kind of like having a four year old and a teenager wrapped into one baffling combination, riding shotgun in the Impala and too intelligent to not get bored staring out the window for hours on end. He asks about everything, from the monsters John hunts and the weapons he uses, to questions about the car and everything else in between. He only asks about Mary once.

"Who were they?" Dean asks, staring at the faded picture of Mary holding a tiny baby Sammy in front of their old house.

"They're gone."

He knows Dean'll take it the wrong way, assume they're both dead but John doesn't have the energy or the strength to correct it. It's easier this way. Less complicated.

Dean is the thing that keeps him occupied; can't fall too far down in the bottle today because Dean needs to learn how to bow hunt for some reason that John can't even remember.

And Dean takes to hunting like he was born to it. Teaching him to shoot hits like a physical ache, John keeps seeing Sammy's chubby nine year old fingers wrapped around the gun instead of Dean's. Sammy had always been clinical about it, learning to shoot with deadly accuracy because he had too, not because he wanted to. Seeking John's approval but at the same time despising him for making it necessary.

Dean practically glows at every compliment, and John has to make an effort to force the words out of his mouth because even when Dean earns them, the praise feels awkward and stale on his tongue. He takes Dean out to open fields and abandoned lots to practice, shooting empty cans and beer bottles. Dean is usually reserved enough not to show things too openly, but he whoops loud and clear the first time he hits all six bottles in six shots.

John watches him reload and leans in. "Now do it one-handed," he teases, only half serious.

It takes a couple tries, but Dean gets it.

The sawed-off knocks him on his ass the first time he tries it. John has to look away and cover his mouth with one hand to stop himself from laughing, the look of surprise on Dean's face as he goes ass-over-teakettle is priceless.

"What the fuck?" Dean stares down at the shotgun like it's betrayed him. John offers a hand and pulls him up.

"Kick back. You have to brace yourself better, and it'll get easier once we get some more weight on you." He elbows Dean in the ribs and Dean twists away but John doesn't let go of his hand. "And by weight I mean muscle, not cheeseburgers. Can't always rely on the guns. Sparring comes next," he adds and Dean swallows.

John's not really sure when touching became taboo again. He'd spent three days practically carrying the kid to the bathroom and back when they were at Jim's, but now that he's mostly recovered Dean shies away from him.

It wouldn't be a big deal except John wants it so badly, spends too much enjoying the brief moments when gets to adjust Dean's stance or fix his grip. At night he can practically feel the weight of phantom limbs wrapped around him, Dean's slender body pressed against his and his breath ghosting against his neck; the way it was when Dean was shivering and weak, delirious with lack of sleep and fighting against his own body to starve out the Walrider.

It's sick, John knows, getting hard thinking about Dean in that state. The kid trusts John to keep him safe, but he must sense what's going on. Somehow he must know what John would take if he had half the chance and a passing excuse.

It's the reason he's held off sparring for this long, because if Dean reacts this badly to casual touches then sparring is bound to be a complete disaster.

 

* * *

 

John's been taking it easy for months, too distracted by Dean and his own grief. But Jim calls him and there's no one else in the area to help out. It's not the first time John's gone off on a hunt alone, but Dean throws a fit at being left behind.

"You're not ready."

"Then make me ready! How am I supposed to prove myself if I never face anything for real? And you know what, fuck you, I took on the Walrider by myself. You sat around and fetched coffee," Dean spits out.

"That was different. I was there the whole time- "

"And you're planning to lead me into a hunt and then abandon me?"

"Things happen. We could get separated, Dean."

"And I've got salt and an iron blade if that happens. It's not like I'm walking in there completely defenseless. What the hell are you training me for if you're not gonna let me back you up?"

John thinks for a minute. It wouldn't be the worst idea, taking Dean along. He can't put this off forever, and it should be an easy enough hunt. There's a poltergeist in a house that's spent more time on the market than not over the past five years. Apparently the realtor is a friend of Jim's. The house is currently empty, a golden opportunity; last owners moved out after only two months complaining of electrical problems and a faulty foundation. This one doesn't seem to be killing anyone at least, it'll be a pain in the ass but Dean wouldn't be in any serious danger. Might as well get the kid's feet wet on something small-fry.

He looks up at Dean. "You do what I tell you, when I tell you. No hesitation, no questions. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Show me your kit."

Dean rolls his eyes but starts laying out supplies on the bed. Iron blade, bag of salt, backup blade. Dean stops a second and then pulls out the Colt he's been practicing with, lays it down on the bed hesitantly.

"Gun won't do do jack against a poltergeist."

"Can't hurt to have it just in case," Dean argues.

He has to borrow one of John's holsters, one of the older ones with the leather cracking. It's too big for him, sitting crookedly on Dean's hips and threatening to slip off. Dean pulls it off without a word and bores a new hole in the leather with the tip of his pocket knife.

"Tuck your shirt in, you can't get to your weapons quick enough like that."

"That'll look so stupid. Besides, you don't have your shirt tucked in."

"I'm better at this than you are, and you know what looks even stupider than a tucked in shirt? Being dead."

He's almost tempted to call the whole thing off right there. He could, Dean technically just questioned an order, but the kid is complying easily enough now and John is pretty sure the back talk is more from nerves than anything else. He can see Dean's knee bouncing in anticipation. The adrenaline could help or hurt, depending on how Dean uses it and there's only one way to find out which one it'll be. He quizzes Dean on the drive over, can't help the compulsive need to check and re-check.

"First?"

"Check the basement and the attic, if it's attached to an object we can destroy the object. If it's attached to the house, we gotta salt it and burn sage to purify it. Room by room."

"Easiest way to salt the whole house?"

"Pour a shitton in the main water line and turn on all the faucets." Dean smiles like he's hoping they'll have to do that, like he's in middle school and looking forward to clogging up the toilets with paper towels for shits and giggles.

"If that doesn't work?"

"We get the hell out and find a witch that'll help us put together some hex bags."

"Good enough."

"So, how do we go about finding a witch?"

"Worry about that if it comes to it, and not before."

 

* * *

 

They spend an hour picking their way through the attic, detritus built up from a decade of families living here and every one of them leaving something of themselves behind. They have to duck under the low ceiling. The spirit idly chucks books or photo albums their way, but it's easy enough to dodge or deflect. Whatever this spirit is, it doesn't seem too attached to anything they touch. John picks up, throws, and kicks his way through every item in the attic, but the poltergeist never explodes in a rage like John expects.

Salt and sage it is then.

The poltergeist seems to get what they're after when they grab the two pound bags of rock salt from their pile of supplies by the front door and head down to the basement. It opens all the valves, bending and cracking the pipes until water is spraying everywhere and the basement starts to flood faster than John can screw the valves back shut. Getting the salt into the pipes isn't going to do shit if there's no water left to pump it through the house. Dean tears open the bags and spills half of it on the floor trying to pour it in the main tank without getting clobbered by airborne shrapnel. Finally both bags are empty and John shouts, "First floor. Go!"

They both race up the stairs and through the house, cranking on the faucets as they go.  
John hits the bathrooms on the second floor and tumbles back down the stairs just in to time see the kitchen table fly across the room and pin Dean to the wall.

"Dean!"

They both scramble to get the table off him, but Dean doesn't have much leverage from his position and it sounds like he's having trouble breathing. It takes John precious minutes to find a good grip; the table is polished and his hands are slick with water. The poltergeist's power starts to slip as the salt works it's way through the pipes, and there's a breeze of warm air that flutters through the house as the spirit retreats. They manage to pry the table away from the wall and Dean falls to his knees.

John grabs the kitchen towels and throws one towards Dean. "You alright?"

Dean nods but doesn't answer, still gasping to catch his breath. John dries his hands and pulls a plastic bag with the sage and matchsticks from his pocket. He pulls out a leaf and sets it alight, holds it until the flame is nearly at his fingertips before he lets go and stomps out the ashes when they fall to the floor. One room down, twelve to go.

  
Dean climbs to his feet and starts poking through the kitchen cabinets.

"What're you doing?"

"Looking for a bowl or plate or something. Unless you wanna set the floor on fire next time?"

Dean finds an old pot that should work well enough and they throw a couple leaves in with a lit match. John walks through the house slowly and Dean follows behind, turning off the taps as they go. The downstairs bathroom has flooded a little and the basement is probably a lost cause, but they don't run into any more trouble.

"How do we know it worked?"

"It worked. We'll stay the night just to make sure, but it would've come back by now if it could."

He sends Dean out to the car to grab their packs and they change into dry clothes, toweling off as best they can. Dean sits down carefully on the floor of the living room, carpet only slightly more comfortable than the tile of the kitchen. John watches him, notices the way he's favoring his right side and crouches down to take a look.

"Lift your shirt up."

Dean hisses as he raises his arms and John can see an ugly bruise spreading across his left side. "Hold still," he orders and carefully traces his fingers over Dean's ribs. His breathing is still labored and John curses himself for not noticing until now. Running through the house like this must have been painful as all fuck.

"You might've cracked a few ribs. Does it hurt to breathe?"

"Little bit."

Liar. John pulls out an ace bandage and starts wrapping Dean's ribs, trying to ignore how close Dean's mouth is to his ear. He can hear every hitch in Dean's breathing, feel the warmth of it against his cheek, and it takes all of John's concentration to focus on the bandage. He slips a finger between the bandage and Dean's skin, testing the tightness and adjusting it. It won't help much, but it's all he can do for the moment. They don't have ice and any pain meds would make Dean groggy, and John can't risk it in case the poltergeist comes back and they need to move fast.

Dean visibly relaxes when he lowers his arms, but there's a tightness around his eyes that tells John he's still hurting.

"Lay down and catch some sleep. I'll take first watch."

"'Kay." Dean closes his eyes and leans back slowly, John is tempted to reach out and help him down but he's pretty sure Dean would just get pissed off at being babied. Dean falls asleep with his head pillowed on his backpack and his arms curled loosely over his stomach, and John stays on first watch 'til dawn.

 

* * *

 

They take it easy for the next couple of weeks. Dean moves gingerly but refuses to take any pain pills for his ribs, and there's not much either of them can do except give it time to heal. The first night after the poltergeist hunt, John pushes him into the bathroom and fills the tub with hot water.

"I'm not a little kid, I can take a damn shower."

"Sure you can," John assures him. "But this is better."

He turns to the wall to give Dean some privacy but turns back a second later when he hears a sharp intake of breath. The set of Dean's shoulders and the clench of his jaw is eerily familiar, and it's not Sammy he sees when he looks at Dean now, but a combination of Mary's beauty and John’s own stubbornness. He helps Dean out of his shirt and unwraps the ace bandage from his chest in silence, avoiding eye contact because he knows exactly how much it grates to need help like this.

The last time they did anything like this, Dean was too out of his head to even notice and John had spent the entire time focusing hard to keep his hands from shaking. This time, John just braces Dean with his hands on the kid's shoulders as he kicks out of his jeans and then steps back out of John's reach.

"I uh. I got it from here, thanks."

It's not modesty that keeps Dean from stripping down any further and John knows it, it's just an excuse. Because climbing into the tub and sitting down with cracked ribs is going to be one hell of a pain and Dean doesn't want John to see him struggling. _Tough luck, kid_ , John thinks and reaches over to get a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Hate to break it to you, but it's nothing I haven't seen before."

Dean looks down, thinks for a minute with his arms wrapped around his ribs and it's nowhere near enough to hide the blush creeping up his neck. Huh, so maybe he is a little bit shy. John steps in close and gives Dean's shoulder a squeeze.

"C'mon. Just let me help you in before the water goes cold. Don't want you slipping and cracking your head on the floor, I'm not staying up all night to keep you conscious. Some of us didn't get our beauty sleep last night."

It's a pathetic attempt at diversion, really, but it works well enough. Dean hitches his boxers down and kicks them off, lets John brace him while he steps into the tub and sinks down with a stifled groan. The left side of his chest is mottled with black and purple bruises, and they're both careful to keep their hands well away from it. Dean leans back and closes his eyes.

"Don't fall asleep in there," John warns.

"I won't, m'just gonna..."

He falls asleep and John doesn't bother leaving; tells himself he'll wake the kid up in a minute, just another minute. He doesn't. He stays and watches Dean sleep, can't pull his eyes away. Dean's head is tipped back, throat exposed in a gentle curve and his nipples just visible above the water line. His knees poke out of the water, legs bent together and leaning against the side of the tub.

John keeps one hand planted on Dean's shoulder to hold him up and doesn't notice the other is making its way up Dean's leg until he hits water. He's stuck like that, gently massaging Dean's thigh and staring straight down past his hand to pick out the faint dusting of freckles on the boy's thighs, just barely visible through the water.

He's so fucked.

The water starts to cool and Dean stirs awake, swallowing a few times and trying to take a deep breath only to get caught short when his ribs protest at the movement. He opens his eyes slowly, watches John watching him.

"Pervert."

John doesn't bother denying it; arguing with Dean, especially about anything vaguely related to sex, is like running his head into a brick wall. John's not surprised to get called on it, Dean does it so often he probably doesn't even realize he's right half the time. What is surprising is that the kid doesn't even move an inch, doesn't pull his legs away and hide under the water or move to stand up.

John moves his hand higher on Dean's thigh, until it's almost cupping his hip and Dean just blinks slowly. One second becomes ten, becomes thirty, and John is still locked in place.

"You should get out, water's getting cold."

"Or you could be a real peach and add some more hot water for me." Dean reaches up with one hand and waves towards the faucet down by his feet. John swats his hand.

"You're starting to prune, princess. And I'm not letting you use up all the hot water. Out, come on."

He helps Dean up and fixes his eyes on the tile wall while Dean steps out of the tub and grabs a towel. John pulls the plug on the drain and starts stripping down for a shower himself while Dean limps out to the bedroom to get dressed. They're both fumbling tired by the time John gets out of the bathroom, trying to re-wrap Dean's ribs with their eyes half closed.

"S'good enough," Dean finally says, knocking John's hands away clumsily and falling back on the bed. He falls asleep without bothering to climb under the covers or put on a t-shirt, and John falls asleep watching the slight rise and fall of the bandages covering his chest.

He’s fucked. So very, very fucked.

 

* * *

 

When fall comes around, John picks his way west in a meandering path. Dean doesn't seem to notice, lets John set their course without question. He'll bitch and argue 'til he's blue in the face about the stupidest things, where they stop for food or what motel they stay in (and Dean will always without fail fight for the ugliest, tackiest option. John’s stopped trying to figure out why.) But he never cares what direction they're headed, just _How far to the next hunt?_ and _When do I get to use the machete again?_

"Ever been to the Grand Canyon?" John asks as they cross the state line into Arizona.

"Nah. Big hole in the ground, what's to see?"

"You have no appreciation for natural beauty."

"I have plenty of appreciation for natural beauty. Show me a mountain shaped like a cheeseburger and I'll be impressed."

John snorts but heads towards the canyon anyway. He kind of doubts the kid actually means most of the things he says; wouldn't put it past Dean to feign disinterest in some warped attempt at reverse-psychology. John is right, Dean visibly perks up when John doubles back up on US-89 and eases off the gas a bit for the loop up over Page.

The land is bone dry and the sky isn't the sunny blue John's always seen in the pictures of it, but it's breathtaking nonetheless. The road curves around, swinging northwest and rushing straight towards the dropoff and it hits John that he's never been here either. Countless miles back and forth all over the country and he'd never stopped for the random crap along the way. Something about Dean makes him want to hold up these little experiences, bright and shiny offerings. See kid, it ain't all bad.

He slows down to a crawl as they go over the bridge and they both crank down the windows to get a better look.

"Holy shit," is Dean's eloquent response.

"Not bad for a big hole in the ground?"

Dean laughs, head hanging out the window more free than John's ever seen him. He can understand the impulse, the vast reach of open space that makes you want to scream out into it just to see if you can get an answer.

"It's a _really fucking big_ hole in the ground."

And John does laugh at that, laughs at the look on Dean's face and the way the wind makes his hair stick up all over the place. John guns it and they fly along the pavement, craggy rock faces towering above them on either side and the mother of all really big holes in the ground somewhere off to the south. They end up missing the actual Grand Canyon entirely, passing over the Colorado river too far north, and the little bit they saw hangs in John's head like a teaser.

He rides out 89 until it merges with I-15 and then shoots straight for California.

 

* * *

 

"So, what're we doing here?"

The car's idling, and they're waiting outside a small apartment building on a nondescript street. Normal looking houses for normal looking people. Sammy's place is on the next block over, but John can't help thinking one looks exactly like the next around here.

There's nothing to mark it, no supernatural signpost advertising "Sam Winchester lives here," and John feels like there probably should be. You don't escape their kind of life without some marker on you. It doesn't seem like it should be possible.

And Dean just waits quietly, expecting to hear about their next case whenever John can manage to pull himself out of his own head. John grabs the flask stashed under his seat and takes a mouthful and for the first time in memory, he offers it to Dean. _Bad influence_ , he thinks but he can't bring himself to care. On the long list of his sins, giving the kid a drink barely even registers.

Dean takes it and swallows a sip, doesn't even wince at the taste and that's enough confirmation for John - if he's corrupting the boy, at least someone else got there first.

Just then his eyes pick out a familiar figure, and fuck, it's Sammy. He's slouched down with a backpack over his shoulder and he's cradling a cell phone in one hand, frowning down at it. He glances up to look before he crosses the street and John sucks in a breath. It was stupid to come here, doubly so to bring Dean along with him. He should've dropped the kid off somewhere and then he could've. Could’ve...

John has no idea why he's here.

Sam's alive, well enough by the look of it but that's nothing John couldn't have found out from some carefully placed calls to Stanford. Pretend to be a potential employer or something, fudge it until he weaseled out a class schedule and an address. But all of that pales in comparison to the reality of Sam, alive and right here in front of him.

Walking down the street like it's any other day.

"He's your son," Dean says in a whisper, voice cracking on the last word.

"Yeah, he is."

There's another long silence, like Dean doesn't know how to ask. "I thought -"

"He wanted normal." John tears his eyes away from the corner that Sam's already passed, out of sight now. He gives Dean as much of a grin as he can manage. "He grew up like this, and he wanted out."

"And you're not gonna go talk to him?"

John shakes his head. "He wouldn't want me to."

"Wouldn't _want you to_? Wouldn't want to know you're alive? He knows what you do, knows how dangerous it is, doesn’t he? Bullshit, 'he wouldn't want you to.'"

"Dean-"

"You're _family_. You're supposed to watch out for each other."

"I tried, goddammit! I spent my life running because I thought something was after him. I just wanted him safe. And I was wrong, alright? A year alone and he's perfectly fine without me. I fucked up - I dragged him on the road his whole life when all he wanted to do was go to school and be normal. Is that what you want to hear?"

John has practically forgotten who he's talking to, the weight of the realization crashing down. None of it was necessary.

Here is Sam - Mary's little boy, at college perfectly safe and happy and absolutely nothing wrong.

 

* * *

 

They check into a motel down in Gilroy, John doesn't trust himself to stay any closer to Sam than that. Doesn't know what he would do, bust down the door and try to drag him out back on the road or just grab him and lose it all. Dean plunks his bag down on the other bed and clears his throat.

"I'm sorry I'm not... you know. Him."

It's uncomfortable and wrong in every way. "This has nothing to do with you."

"Yeah," Dean says and shuts himself in the bathroom.

It only takes him maybe twenty minutes to shower and get dressed, but by the time he's out of the bathroom John's polished off most of the bottle. He knows he's probably scaring the kid, all those months on the road together and Dean's never seen him this bad off before.

Dean's still wearing the same stupid pair of sweats John gave him months ago, they never did get around to buying new ones. Ones that actually fit. There are always more bullets to buy, the first aid kit to restock, gas to pay for. At the end of the day Dean never mentions it so John never remembers. Not until moments like these when he sees the waitband scrunched up on Dean's hips and the hems flopping down to cover his feet and the image hits John like a punch to the gut.

"None of this is your fault," he tries to explain.

"Yeah, I get it. Family thing."

John stumbles over to his own bed as Dean flips on the tv. They both pretend to watch, and every time John closes his eyes reality shifts and he's back two, five, ten years; Sammy on the next bed over, bored and channel surfing. He's somewhere in between when he asks, words tumbling out without thought.

"How old were you...when you lost them?"

He can almost hear Dean thinking, knows he's considering pretending he didn't hear or didn't understand the question. Maybe he thinks John won't remember, because eventually he replies, "Couple of months."

"Sammy was six months old."

"At least he had you."

There’s a long pause.

"No, he didn't."

John passes out with his boots still on and the light of the TV flickering against his eyelids.

 

* * *

 

They leave California the next morning. John is hungover and doesn't make any effort to hide it, downs three cups of black coffee and smacks his lips until his mouth stops feeling like it's filled with cotton wool. Dean sits in the passenger seat with the bag of drive-through food in his lap and hands John egg mcmuffins and hash browns until John waves him off.

"I could drive," Dean offers.

"Not a chance in hell. Do you even have a license?"

"One or two."

"Any of 'em actually real?"

"Depends on how you define 'real.'"

It's not a case, not the same as the thrill of a hunt, but it's something to do and that's enough for now. John chucks the crappy fake IDs despite Dean's protests and walks him through the process of making new ones. They both bitch and argue over the details on the licenses, like Dean's DOB and which state he’s from. Dean flips out when John tries to put his height at 5'11".

"Fuck you, I'm six feet at least."

"Uh huh, shorty." Riling him up like this is too much fun. Dean goes all red and his mouth works like he's forgotten how to get the words out.

"Can you grab the exacto for me?” John says. “...If you can reach it?"

"How tall are you? Stand up, c'mon we'll measure it."

Dean tugs at his collar until he stands up and John is too amused by Dean's indignation to argue. Dean steps up close, craning his neck up and staring at the top of John's forehead as if he can tell anything from that angle.

"Fine, lets do this right. Shoes off and stand over there," John says and points at the wall. There's a tape measure somewhere in the trunk, John digs around until he finds it. When he comes back, Dean is standing with his back to the wall, trying to push up on his toes without being too obvious about it.

"Heels on the floor, shorty."

Dean thumps down flat on his feet but stays standing as tall as he can. John carefully balances his journal on Dean's head, marks the wall just under the binding. It would be easier if Dean would hold still. He's trying to push up on his toes again while John is distracted and the journal keeps slipping up on the wall. He plants a hand on Dean's shoulder and grinds out, "Hold still, dammit."

Finally he gets a good mark and taps Dean's shoulder to let him know he can step away. Dean insists on measuring it himself, dropping the tape measure from the mark to the floor while John tries to make sure he's actually holding it straight.

"Ha! Six one!" Dean crows.

"Six and a half-inch. On a good day."

"No, that's totally six one. I think your old man eyes can't see as well."

In the end, he settles on making three drivers licenses and applying for a stack of credit cards to match, for use 'just in case'. John won’t bother with other fake IDs - federal agent, state trooper - the kid isn't old enough to pull any of them off except maybe a college student. Dean just snorts when John mentions that one, "Right, 'cause that's gonna get me all the hot intel."

"College kids talk, and they talk even more if they think you're one of them. Use what you've got."

"Yeah, yeah. And you don't bitch about what you don't got, I know." Dean spends twenty minutes flipping through a phone book they stole from the motel's front desk, trying out last names and discarding one after another. "Dean Sackville, Sackville... Sounds like a pretentious douchebag. Dean Sutton. I think maybe S is a crap letter anyway. How about M?"

"I've got an idea, how about we use your _actual_ last name for one of these?"

"That's boring. Why the hell would I wanna do that?"

John rubs his hands over his eyes and resigns himself to waiting until Dean makes a fucking decision. He can't push the kid about his family; he's tried it before. Dean shuts down anytime it comes up but John can't stop himself from picking at the scab. If he could get a name, a real DOB, anything, maybe he could track down the kid's records, piece together his past and feel a little less like he was walking a tightrope all the time around Dean.

"What about sticking with guns? Wesson, Dean Wesson," Dean repeats to himself in a voice two octaves lower than normal.

"Sounds great. Could you get a move on? We've still got one more ID to make."

"One more? Oy, I thought I was getting three!"

"You are," John grumbles. Dammit, he didn't want to make a big deal out of this. He walks over to the bed and flips the other license down on top of Dean's phone book. "In case we start getting questions about why we're on the road together. I get one more dirty look from a motel clerk and there's gonna be violence."

"Holy shit." Dean picks up the ID and stares at it. "Are we gay married now? 'Cause if we're gay married then I am seriously pissed off I missed my own bachelor party."

 _Jesus Christ_. "Anyone starts asking questions, you're my son. Got it?"

"Kinky." Dean grins up at John, and there's more there than just amusement there. After a moment his expression turns serious. "I got it. And uh, thanks."

"It's nothing."

"Maybe not to you," Dean mutters under his breath.

 

* * *

 

Sparring with Dean never really gets any easier. The kid gets better, studies everything intently and won't let up until he's mastered every new move John shows him. He's got some muscle on him now, still too young and finely boned to be bulky but at least his ribs don't stick out anymore. John sets his mind on business, doesn't think about Dean twisting underneath him to break a submission hold; he thinks about Dean getting attacked when he's too far away to help, pictures his boy struggling against the grip of some monster and his blood runs cold.

There's no desire lurking there, not if John stays focused.

John takes him out on punishing morning runs when he can, runs ahead to set the pace so he doesn't have to watch Dean's sweat damp t-shirt sticking to his shoulders and chest. It still nearly gives him a heart attack every time they stop and Dean bends over panting with his head down and his hands braced on his thighs.

"Buck up, slow poke. You gotta keep moving or you'll stiffen up." John slaps his shoulder with one hand and jogs in place. Dean mutters something uncomplimentary and John perks up. "What was that?"

"Fuck you, it feels like my lungs are on fire."

"Your ribs?" John stops. The bruising has completely faded, but sometimes in cold weather he'll catch Dean absently rubbing one hand along his left side. It shouldn't still be a problem, not after months of time to heal. But if there's previous trauma...

Dean stands and stretches, shakes his head. "Nah, just -  _Jesus_. You weren't kidding about all that Marines crap, were you?"

"I never kid about 'Marines crap.' And if you call it that ever again I'll make you sharpen the knives until your hands go numb."

"Sorry, sorry." Dean holds his hands up, palms open. As usual, contrition only lasts so long before he's grinning again. "Hey old man, we running or you need more time to rest your hip replacement?"

"Shut up. And just for that, you're setting the pace for the next few miles." He gives Dean a shove forward on the path and the kid stumbles into a run. John watches the sweat trickle down the back of Dean's neck and the flex of ass in the thin sweats as he goes on ahead.

He can't be a good man all the time.

 

* * *

 

They take out a den of vampires in Tulsa, walk out covered in blood and high on adrenaline.

"Vampires, fucking vampires! It just gets funnier every time I say it. Holy shit, does this mean Buffy is real too?"

Dean is swinging his machete around, twirling it like it's a baton. John wants to yell at him for it, tell him to treat his blade with a little respect. But the way he handles the weapon is almost artful, wrist turning and arm swinging with easy grace. It looks natural. He's still rambling on about Buffy, and John only has a passing knowledge of popular culture so he leaves him to it. It's good to hear Dean talk freely about something so normal, average teenager stuff like TV shows.

They clean up and head out to a bar, spend the night in a back corner booth trading random stories, half of which are made up or heavily edited. They both laugh too loud and there's a bright flush to Dean's cheeks after he finishes his fourth beer, for the first time in years John finds himself not thinking about this as a half life, the pale substitute for the one he would've ( _should have, dammit_ ) had with Mary.

It's different, darker and rougher; but it's real. He's spent near on twenty years chasing after a fantasy of revenge, and he still wants that. Wants it right down to his bones. But maybe now he can admit to himself, heavily muted by alcohol and the sound of Dean's laughter, that killing the demon won't bring Mary back. He's always known it on some level, but hope is never rational, and he can't begin to count the number of times he's dreamed about wrapping his hands around the demon’s neck and just squeezing until it gave her back.

After all he's seen, he should know better. The dead can walk again, if you know the right people, but it's never right. They're never whole, and Mary deserves better than that.

Some guy in a plaid shirt wanders up to their table and John goes on high alert, they're out of the way and no one but their waitress should be this close. "Hey there," the guy offers up with a southern twang.

"You look like you're having a good time here, and I keep seeing your boy eyeing the dart board. Wondered if maybe he'd like to have a go. Jackpots up to two-fifty." Plaid waggles his eyebrows like that'll entice them. John looks over and sees Dean considering it. If Plaid is hoping to hustle the kid, he's in for a bad surprise.

"You wanna?" John asks and Dean leans back and smirks. John pulls out his wallet.

"How much to buy us in?"

He ends up passing Dean a couple fifties, certain he won't actually need that much but it's fun to watch Plaid's eyes water at the sight of such a (seemingly) easy mark. It's not until Dean is across the bar and lining up his first shot that John realizes that's not what Plaid is actually after. The guy laughs and lays a hand on Dean's back when he fumbles the first shot, pretends to talk Dean through it and offers him pointers.

John doesn't need to hear the words to know the game.

Dean just laps it up, at least he doesn't have to fake the drunken good humor. But the awed gasp he lets out when Plaid lands his first dart in the green is so overdone that John nearly chokes on his beer trying to hold in a laugh. Unfortunately for him, Plaid peaks early, barely makes the middle ring with his final two shots and Dean has a hard time keeping the impressed look on his face. Dean ends up losing the first round, getting a read on the players before he pulls it out for the second.

Dean wins the second round, of course he wins. Even drunk and distracted by some asshole's hand on his lower back his boy has steady hands and good aim. He whoops and pretends to look surprised while he stuffs the winnings in his pocket. Plaid leans in close and still doesn't move his fucking hand from Dean's back.

Even from across the room he can see the way Plaid's head nods towards the bathrooms. But Dean slips away like a pro, nods towards John and gives his best _aw shucks but my Dad's here_ routine. John can't actually hear the words but he can see it playing out clear as day. He's both proud and suddenly furious, knowing Dean is good at this because he has to be, has had too much practice at it.

Dean abandons Plaid by the dartboard and slides back in the both, flush with victory and completely unaware.

"How much did you get?"

"Near four hundred, I think. Didn't wanna count with everyone watching."

"Mmm," John agrees. He wants to get out of here. "'Bout time to head out?"

"Might as well. Had our fun, made some cash. And it might not be a bad idea to make a speedy exit right about now."

Dean doesn't need to explain why. Plaid and co. are looking surly and it's entirely possible that Dean just cleaned them out of all the money they had to buy more drinks. It’s also possible Dean used the opportunity to relieve one or two of them of their wallets while he was at it. John’s been trying to break him of the habit, but change doesn’t come easy.

They've already had one fight today, and not that John's not good for another but he'd rather just head out and get to sleep. First sign of ageing: learning to pick your battles instead of seeking them out for kicks.

John slaps a fifty down on the bar on their way out, waves at the bartender and nods towards the dart players. He can be gracious, when he wants.

They stumble in the door of the motel room and get undressed without bothering to flip on the light. John is almost out, mind swimming in alcohol and body aching in delayed response to the hunt when he feels the bed shift and Dean climbs in with him.

"Dean," he warns.

"Not gonna shove me outta bed again, are you?"

"You have your own damn bed."

"This one's warmer."

John rolls over and stares up at the ceiling. He's too drunk to deal with this. He's also never letting Dean drink again, not if the result is letting some guy paw all over him and then crawling into John's bed that night like the fucking boy-Lolita that he is.  
Dean isn't even touching him, though it's a near thing, there's only so much bed to go around and it’s not like either of them are small men. But there's just enough room for them both to lie inches apart.

It's not so bad if they're not touching. And Dean is still clothed, John hopes.

"Go to sleep," he mutters and closes his eyes.

Waking up is too warm and a little claustrophobic; John is too used to sleeping alone. Dean is sprawled out with one arm flung across John's chest and the other hanging off the side of the bed. One leg is over the edge too and Dean looks about three seconds away from tumbling over the edge and utterly unaware of it, snoring into his pillow deep in sleep. John gently pulls the hand from his chest and tucks it down by Dean's side.

Dean snuffles and his hand balls into a fist, coming up to hide his eyes from the early morning light. If John didn't know first-hand what a pain in the ass Dean could be when he's awake, he'd almost call it cute.

John is tempted to stay and watch for a bit, screw the moral high ground; he's earned a little cheap pleasure. But his bladder is aching and his head is pounding from the dehydration. He climbs out of bed and hits the bathroom, rubs the sleep from his eyes and downs some aspirin and a couple handfuls of water from the tap. He pulls on his clothes from the night before and heads out to pick up some breakfast, letting the cold air clear his head and trying to remember exactly how many beers he'd let Dean have last night.

Dean is bound to be in a sorry state whenever he wakes up, John knows from experience the kid has fuck-all alcohol tolerance. The nice big greasy breakfast John plans to pick up is equal parts cruelty and kindness. The smell alone will probably knock Dean for a loop, but he's got a strong stomach and John would lay odds he'll manage to keep his bile down.

He orders some plain toast and orange juice too, because he may be cruel but he's not a complete asshole.

The girl at the checkout counter gives him one look and offers a pitying smile, and John realizes he must look like nine kinds of hell warmed over. Hasn't shaved in two days and still has a split lip from taking out the vampire nest yesterday, and he's ordering a meal that may as well be called 'Hangover Helper.' Way to fly under the radar.

Dean is still dead to the world when he gets back, curled up smack in the middle of the bed. John guzzles down a cup of coffee and goes to shave.

He's scanning the obits and feeling almost human again when Dean finally starts to come around. There's a pathetic groan from the bed and Dean shifts, one foot hits the floor and Dean bolts upright. From the look on his face, he instantly regrets it.

"Aw, _shit_."

"Morning, sunshine!" John says too loud and manages an ungodly amount of enthusiasm. He's never pretended to be a nice guy, and Dean should know better. He doesn't, of course. Just sits on the edge of the bed slumped over with the heels of his hands digging into his eyes.

"I hate you," he mumbles.

John takes pity on him, grabs a cup of lukewarm coffee and shoves it in the microwave for a minute while Dean clutches his head and whimpers at the noise. John hands over the mug and Dean downs it in one go while John tries not to wince.

"What the hell did I drink last night?"

"Tequila shots with beer chasers."

"Eugh."

"That'll teach you."

Dean manages a grin. "No it won't."

“No, it probably won’t.”

 

* * *

 

Neither one of them can blame it on alcohol or the adrenaline high from the hunt, the next time it happens. It's the middle of summer and hot as hell. In the absence of other options, John chooses to blame Dean. The kid just climbs into John's bed one night without a word. John could leave, get out and sleep in the other bed, and he can't really come up with a reason why he doesn't.

But they're still alright as long as John doesn't do anything. By some fucked up logic, as long as it's Dean coming to him then it's okay. And nothing happened the last time. So.

  
Dean climbs into John's bed one night and it's hot as hell but the kid doesn't seem to notice.

"This gonna be a thing now?"

There's a long pause before Dean answers. "No."

John isn't sure he believes him, but Dean isn't bitching and he just climbed into John's bed, it's as good as a flashing neon sign. Something is wrong. If hogging the covers and sweating through their t-shirts helps somehow, John won't question it. God knows his own ways of coping are worse.

John is pretty sure Dean doesn't actually sleep that night. John wakes up a couple of times during the night, too used to the sound of Dean's snoring to sleep well when it's not there. Every time he wakes up Dean's eyes are open, and when John finally rolls out of bed just before sunrise Dean sits up like he didn't just spend the past six hours pretending to be asleep.

"What's on tap for today?" John asks.

"Was about to ask you. What's our next gig?"

"You're not hunting like this."

"Like what?"

"Dean, dammit." They're two of a kind, is what they are. John knows without asking that whatever it is that's got Dean tied up in knots, Dean sure as hell doesn't want to talk about it. John is fine with that. But there's no way Dean's going out in the field sleep deprived and distracted. John's not sure how to explain that without touching on the other thing. "Think we could take a day off. What's the nearest crappy tourist trap around here?"

Dean has a thing for tourist traps. Not the genuinely interesting shit, no, it's always the largest ball of twine and the country's oldest replica of a mud hut. They've never been back around by the Grand Canyon, but John's pretty sure thanks to Dean he's dropped cash at every overpriced attraction between Vegas and the Great Lakes.

"What, we don't got no leads?"

"Dean."

"Sorry. We don't _have any_ leads," Dean enunciates and rolls his eyes. "So, do we?"

John picks the farthest hunt he can think of. "Something's eating hikers up in Wisconsin. You up for a day on the road?"

"Can I drive?"

"Has the answer ever been yes?"

“No, which is why I keep askin’.”

 

* * *

 

Dean fidgets the entire drive. He's got the horseshoe pendant clutched in his fingers and he keeps wrapping the leather cord around and around his fingers only to let go and start over again.

John knows an anniversary when he sees it, tries to remember if he’s seen Dean like this in the last year, but some days are fuzzier than others and John would be lying if he said the alcohol didn't have anything to do with it.

He's been better, he's getting better, with Dean around to keep him steady. But those first few months stay a blur in his mind; trying to fill Dean's head up with as much knowledge as possible as quickly as possible, because back then he'd still been convinced he could train the kid up and then send him on his way. He'd been kind of an idiot, but whiskey and grief could do that to a man.

They stop for lunch later than usual, because usually Dean is clamoring for food and making puppy eyes at every diner they pass. He doesn't say anything this time and John forgets until his stomach starts growling. Dean licks his lips but doesn't make tracks for the food right away.

Instead he announces needlessly, "I'm gonna hit the head."

"Don't get lost."

Dean climbs out of the car and flips him the bird.

John takes his time topping up the tank, parks the car and wanders over to the roadside diner. He scans the room for Dean but doesn't find him; isn't worried. John gets a table and a menu from Laureen-the-waitress and wonders what's least likely to taste like asphalt and day-old grease. It's not until he's ordering that he realizes Dean is taking a really fucking long time in there. Shit, maybe he's sick or something.

Laureen shrugs when he asks if she's seen a kid about John's height come through, she either doesn't know or doesn't care. John cases the diner again, maybe he missed him the first time around, but comes up with nothing. He runs outside and loops around to the bathrooms, wondering how in the hell Dean managed to find trouble in less than twenty minutes at a friggin' rest stop.

He finds Dean in a bathroom, his boots poking out of one of the stalls and it's an almost perfect reenactment of that very first night. John is stunned but acting completely on autopilot as he grabs the other man by his shirt and hauls him out of the stall, the guy’s dick flopping out of his open jeans. The guy stumbles and tries to yell, shuts up right quick when he catches a flash of John's gun tucked in his belt and pure rage in his eyes.

Dean hasn't even climbed to his feet before John grabs him and slams him up against the wall. The bathroom door swings shut as the guy leaves in a hurry.

"What the fuck, Dean? _What the fuck?_ " His voice is probably carrying all the way back to the diner and there's spit flying in Dean's face but John doesn't even try to stop himself. He shakes Dean hard, irrationally angry at the trail of spit (and Jesus, something else) smeared down the boy's chin. Dean's eyes skirt away, looking down at the floor. It's a while before John pulls himself together enough to realize Dean's looking at something, not just away from him. It's a crumpled wad of cash on the floor.

"You needed money," John says dumbly. Nothing makes sense.

"I- Yeah. Just wanted some cash."

John reaches around to Dean's back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Dean doesn't try to stop him, just stares at John defiantly when he pulls out the stack of bills already tucked inside.

"I don't have much patience at the moment. Talk. You wanted a thrill? I wouldn't take you on a hunt today so you suck down the first sleazeball you find at a truck stop? Funny thing, you don't look like you were enjoying yourself all that much."

And then John doesn't just cross the line, he fucking obliterates it. Reaches out and cups Dean's cock through his jeans and the kid isn't hard, not in the least. And Dean breaks. He just crumples; it’s awful to watch but John can't look away. Dean's shoulders hunch forward and his eyes slam shut, and he sinks back down to the floor.

"Please - just, gimme a day and I'll be good again. _Please_."

His voice is surprisingly steady, but there's no way John is falling for that. He crouches down and does his level best to be calm and reasonable. "Dean, you can't just go out and fucking sell yourself in a goddamn bathroom. You might get caught, you might catch something. Christ, kid, you weren't even using a condom. That guy was old enough to be your father."

"So are you," Dean slurs back.

"I'm not the one molesting you in a bathroom." John thinks about that one too little too late. Shit. "You know what I mean. Is that- Did something happen?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, foster daddy touched me in the bad place and that's why I'm fucked up."

John has a hard time taking the sarcasm for what it is; his own fears of the foster system are too well rooted. Too many years with Sammy clutched tight and skipping out at the slightest hint of too many questions from the school and the neighbors. Dean came out the other side of that, alive and mostly healthy, and that should be enough. But a kid doesn't run away from a warm bed in foster care to live on the streets for no good reason.

He thinks about being in bed last night, about Dean sneaking off to sell himself for some attention.

"You needed the company? Some comfort? What? 'Cause I gotta say, there are better ways to go about it."

"You won't touch me," Dean says.

"That's what this is about?"

Dean finally looks up, meets his eyes for the first time since John came into the bathroom. "Yeah, I just handle rejection really badly. Sorry 'bout that."

Right.

John sighs. "Okay. One for one, you answer me, honestly and completely, and I'll answer any question you want."

"Honestly and completely? Tall order for felons and whores."

"I think we can live up to it."

Their eyes lock and there's a long moment when John can't breathe. Dean thunks his head back against the wall.

John’s still trying to figure out how to ask the question when Dean beats him to the punch.

"July 24th, 1984."

Twenty years ago to the day. Dean's got the pendant out again, rubbing his thumb against the edges of the horseshoe. It's not entirely smooth, John knows, he cut it himself with stolen tools and he keeps expecting blood to well up on Dean's skin from the rough edges.

"Electrical short, is what they said. I don't remember any of it, but it was in the files they sent out to the schools. They'd give the foster parents these manila envelopes with all our info in 'em. Like a user's manual: how to deal with your new substitute child." Dean's voice is completely flat, his eyes are fixed on the crumpled bill on the floor.

"Your parents?" John asks even though he already knows the answer.

"Died in the fire."

"I'm sorry." There's not really anything else to say. John's hands itch, like he's supposed to be doing something. Electrical short, faulty wiring. John knows the story all too well, it's the only answer anyone would give him, standing in the middle of the police department cradling Sammy in his arms and Sammy just _wouldn't stop crying_.

"Shit happens," Dean says.

Little baby Sammy, red faced and wailing and John swears the cabinets had shook with just the sound of it. Something John swears he saw, memory blurred by time but sharpened by years of pent up rage. A dark figure over Sammy's crib, and it wasn't Mary because Mary was already on the ceiling by then. John stares down at his hands, realization like ice water creeping down his neck.

"Dean, how old were you?"

"Six months. Why?"


End file.
